


The King Begins to Play

by TrulyMightyPotato



Series: Royal Flush [34]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, PJ is a bit of an idiot and strains his arm, and also the actual building, happens before AAO, it's the freddy's crew again, no serious damage happens tho, no violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26668843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato
Summary: In March 1923, PJ was invited to play at a certain speakeasy.
Series: Royal Flush [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/699969
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	The King Begins to Play

_**March 1923** _

“Bonjour.”

The word felt foreign on PJ’s tongue for more than one reason, especially since he still wasn’t sure he wanted to do this.

The door swung open, revealing someone PJ didn’t recognize. The person waved him inside.

This wasn’t the first speakeasy he’d ever visited, but it was certainly the only one he’d ever visited alone. It was, by far, the most dangerous, since it was deep in Irish territory and he was Italian.

And it was definitely the first speakeasy he’d ever been invited to work at.

PJ took a deep breath and studied the man walking up to him.

He looked rather eccentric, which was saying something in this place: pink jacket, pink bow tie, a shirt that was striped yellow and white, light grey pants and flashy two-toned shoes.

“Welcome,” he drawled, a wide grin stretched across his face. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“Honestly, Wilford, neither was I.” PJ lowered his case to the ground and rubbed at his shoulder. Carrying it was not an easy thing to do—especially not discretely through the streets.

“Here, let me show you around, and then you can decide if you want to stay.” Wilford clapped PJ on the shoulder, then steered him onto the main floor.

The room was packed. Every table had at least one drink a person, and a fair number had a half finished drink, and another glass of water. A few tables had small platters of finger food: little sandwiches, tiny canapés, even the occasional selection of fresh fruit.

“That up there is the band stage; where you’ll play.” Wilford nodded at the raised platform, and at the two men there: one at the piano, one on the drums. “It’s rough to make sweet, sweet music with only the two of them.”

“They’re not doing half bad,” PJ noted.

“They’re skilled, just like you.” Wilford stroked an imaginary moustache. “How do you feel about meeting the sponsors of this lovely place?”

“Are you that confident I’m not an undercover cop?”

Wilford laughed.

“What kind of undercover bull would have been playing the bass on the street corner?”

“Fair point,” he admitted, shrugging with an easy smile. He was just glad it was an opportunity that had found him, and not one of the Family (or the godfather himself—not that the godfather was up and about all that often, but it would have been PJ’s luck).

He didn’t have more time to think on that, as Wilford had grabbed his left arm and was pulling him through the chairs and people to a table near the stage.

The three people seated at it looked up.

“Why, hello, Wilford,” a blonde woman said, smiling. She seemed friendly enough, but PJ could feel her sharp blue eyes dissecting him. “Is this the bassist you were talking about?”

Wilford grinned, replying, “Indeed it is.”

“He’s almost as tall as I am,” a bearded man said, standing casually.

PJ fought against rolling his eyes, and nearly muttered a curse. He’d thought he was tall, but this man easily had a few inches on him.

“How interesting,” the third and final person said, and a chill ran down PJ’s spine at the voice. The familiar voice. He wasn’t afraid of the man who spoke, but he was certainly afraid of being recognized as who—and _what—_ he was.

Felix Kjellberg met PJ’s eyes steadily, then raised an eyebrow and tipped his drink at him before downing the rest of it in one go. “Well, I’ve a meeting in the morning and if I’m hungover I’ll never hear the end of it.” He tipped his hat to the woman. “Enjoy the night.”

A man seemed to materialize out of the shadows; a man considerably shorter than he was. And, much more importantly, he was wearing a full-face mask. Nobody else seemed bothered by this, which seemed to indicate it was normal.

This was a strange place.

“Send Marzia my regards,” was all the woman said.

“Of course,” Kjellberg said, and then he—and the Faceless, because that mask couldn’t mean anything else—was gone.

“I’m Madame Foxglove,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I sponsor this place.”

“PJ Liguori.” PJ accepted the handshake, though he was a bit surprised at the strength of the motion.

Her eyes narrowed slightly at his name, but she said nothing.

“I’m Wade Barnes,” the bearded man said. “I just follow her around.”

Foxglove laughed softly, but something about the way her eyes held a warning and Barnes towered over him with crossed arms told him Barnes did much more than ‘follow her around’.

PJ made a mental note to not get them angry at him.

“Alright, time for you to meet the rest of the team here.” Wilford turned, grabbing PJ’s arm again and steering him through the crowd. “Kathryn is in the office, you won’t see her often, but everyone else is on the floor.” He nodded at one of the bouncers- “Tyler-” then at the young man waiting tables- “Ethan-” and the woman mixing drinks at the bar- “Amy.”

There was something about the way Wilford said her name that made PJ pause. Clearly, there was something more than simple workplace affection going on between those two.

“And here’s the band.” Wilford stopped in front of the stage, where the two men from earlier were taking sips of their drinks.

“Why, hello,” the drummer said, a blatant Irish accent tumbling from his mouth. “Wilford tells us you’re good.”

PJ shoved his suspicions and fears deep inside and shrugged.

“I mean, I’m not bad.”

“What humility,” the pianist murmured, taking another sip. “Clearly, we’ll get along well.”

PJ paused, unsure how to take the man. He’d heard a British accent—it was a small world, apparently—but he wasn’t sure if that made it more or less likely the man was joking.

“I’m Sean McLoughlin, but you can call me Jack,” the drummer said cheerfully, extending a hand.

Everything about this man was screaming that he was in the mob, but… no, PJ couldn’t judge _that_ quickly. He was deep in Irish territory; a lot of Irish people lived here. Of course it made sense one of them was in the band.

“PJ Liguori.” Once again, PJ accepted the handshake.

Once again, there was the slightest narrowing of eyes at his name, but then the drummer was smiling all over again.

“Glad to meet you, PJ.”

“Daniel Howell,” the pianist said, but offered no hand for a handshake.

PJ didn’t push it. There was a tiny inkling of a memory from his childhood (hadn’t he grown up along a boy with the same name, back in Britain?) but he pushed it aside as nothing more than simple coincidence.

Howell stood (goodness, there were so many tall people here), drained his drink, and then dipped his head to Wilford. “I’ve got to be off. Phil and I have a story to chase early morning, so…”

“Take care, Dan.” Wilford smiled at him.

Howell made his way to a table, where _yet another tall man_ was waiting with a coat, and the two walked off.

“Dan only plays sometimes, when he can get the time between his work,” Wilford explained.

“I’m here every night, though,” Jack leaned forward on his drums. “So you’d better get used to me pretty quick.”

“I’ll make sure to do that.” For all of PJ’s misgivings, the Irishman sure made it easy to smile with him.

Mark clapped his hand on PJ’s back. “Why don’t you go get your bass and take a seat up here? I’ll get you a drink. What do you like?”

PJ could only manage to stutter out a half-coherent answer as he was shoved back to where he’d set his bass.

When he returned, another stool was set up on the stage: a clear indicator of where he should sit.

Jack whistled as PJ pulled out his bass. “That’s a big fish you’ve got there.”

“Yes, well, it sounds amazing.”

“We’ll have to see about that, noodle.” Jack leaned back on his stool and kicked his feet lightly. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Noodle?” PJ scoffed.

“You’re long and stringy. And Italian. It’s the perfect nickname for you.”

“And you’re small and Irish. Should I call you a potato?”

Jack laughed.

“Stop playing around and start playing,” someone shouted from the crowd. “It’s a damn bore without the music.”

“Patience, fellow!” Wilford shouted back. “You can’t rush perfection.”

“You sound like my sister in the morning!”

To that, Wilford turned, flourished, and fluttered his eyelashes, before turning back to the men amidst some laughter and whistles.

“You play whenever you’re ready.”

“Yessir, Wilford, sir.” Jack tipped his cap slightly.

PJ, already focusing on settling properly, just nodded.

♣♥♠♦

PJ gratefully accepted the drink Wilford offered, and had it downed much more quickly than he thought he would.

“Worn out already?” Jack teased.

PJ pulled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

“Never.”

This was, of course, ignoring that he was breathing heavily from trying to keep up with Jack on the energetic songs, and that both his arms were aching already—his left especially.

“Ooohhh,” Jack chuckled, “really getting down to business, are we?”

“You’ve not seen me down to business yet, Jackaboy.” PJ grinned at him, ignored the twinge of pain that shot up his arm, and sent his fingers dancing across the strings once again.

The twinges of pain got more and more frequent as the night went on, and, very steadily, turned into a constant throbbing cry from where he’d been stabbed by Wald a year and a half ago.

PJ should have stopped, should have taken the time to make sure he wasn’t damaging his arm more, but he wasn’t going to. He didn’t get to play very often, sure; and he’d never played for such a length of time before—but it was also his first night here at Freddy’s. If he couldn’t even make it through one full night, then what reason did Wilford have to keep him around? He wanted this chance. He wanted it to be something _he_ did, and not something he _had_ to do for the Family.

So he didn’t stop.

Not until his arm flared with such pain that his hand spasmed and he dropped his bass.

He tried to catch it, he really did, but his arm just refused to cooperate, and the bass bounced (well, slammed) off his fingers before falling-

And stopping, as Jack caught it with a muffled grunt and low cursing.

“PJ!” Wilford darted up to him and gripped his shoulders, his arms—and managed to grab his arm _just right_ so the pain screamed through his limb.

PJ pulled away, gasping.

“M- Wil, no.” Barnes pulled Wilford’s hands off PJ and carefully put his hand on PJ’s back. “Are you alright?”

PJ’s right hand automatically found the agony in his arm and cupped it, cradling his arm protectively against his body.

“I’ll live,” he gritted out.

Wilford frowned.

“That’s not answering the question.”

PJ flexed his hand and winced as pain shot through his arm all over again.

“It’s an old injury. I thought it was fine, but…”

“You should have said something,” Jack said, sounding distressed. “What are you doing, Peej? Why’d you hurt yourself for this?”

“It wasn’t deliberate,” PJ murmured.

“No more playing for you tonight,” Wilford decided. “Do you need something for the pain?”

“I can’t give him anything that’ll work with the drinks you’ve given him,” Madame Foxglove warned as she walked up.

Why were they all worrying over him? He was just the new musician.

“Come on,” Barnes said gently, “let’s get you sitting down.”

“I’ll have Ethan heat something up to put on it. That’ll help.”

“I’ll grab my trumpet,” Wilford said, “fill your place for the rest of the night. There’s not too many hours left in the night.”

PJ pulled away from Barnes trying to steer him to a seat.

“I appreciate it, but… I really should just get home. I have things I can use there.”

The godfather was going to kill him when he found out PJ had hurt his arm again, especially if he found out he hurt it playing bass.

Granted, it was nearly three in the morning. It wasn’t terribly likely the godfather would be awake.

“I’ll take you, then,” Barnes said. “You shouldn’t drive like this.”

PJ shook his head. The last thing he needed was one of the lookouts noticing he returned in a car different from the one he left in—and Jordan would notice PJ’s car wasn’t at the headquarters.

“Thank you, really; but no. I’ll be okay.”

“Well,” Wilford hesitated, then slipped a phone number into PJ’s pocket, “call me when you get the chance. Let me know if you need help.” He held up a finger. “If I _don’t_ get a call, I’m going to assume you crashed on the way home and I need to go looking for you.”

“I’ll call.”

“Good.”

PJ hastily gathered up his things—except for his bass, which he couldn’t carry right now, and Wilford assured him it was safe—and left.

♣♥♠♦

Jordan frowned and hummed as he inspected PJ’s arm.

“Well, it doesn’t look like you were stabbed again.”

“I told you, I just pulled it wrong when I was practicing,” PJ grumbled, pulling his arm away from Jordan.

_“Where did your bass go?”_ The godfather asked, in Italian of course. When he’d found out PJ had hurt his arm again, he’d demanded to see him and Jordan both.

_“I dropped it, and the drop broke it. It’s in too many pieces to repair.”_ PJ didn’t bother looking over as he answered, instead pulling his sleeve back down to where it belonged.

The godfather _hmm_ -ed.

That was it, then. PJ was committed to Freddy’s.

After all, he’d lied to the godfather about it after only one night playing there.


End file.
